


Score

by greenteafiend, VulpesVulpes713



Series: A Collection of Klance [14]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bathroom Scene, Blood, Flirting, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Fluff, M/M, NSFW, Nosebleed, Running, Soccer, Suggestive Themes, Temporary Fake Relationship, klance, vld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-28 01:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18201356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenteafiend/pseuds/greenteafiend, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulpesVulpes713/pseuds/VulpesVulpes713
Summary: Lance asked what his reward would be should he make the shot.He never would have expected this.





	1. Chapter 1

“Shoot it from center!” Hunk calls out from the goal post at the far end of the field, waving his arms as Lance stretches in the middle.

 

“What’ll I get if it goes in?” he shouts back, rolling his ankles before passing the soccer ball back and forth between his feet. They have a game in a few minutes, but Lance has been here longer to warm up their new goalie, who is currently in the bathroom. Pidge waltzes up beside him, hair secured behind a headband and shin guards hanging unfastened at her feet.

 

“The respect of the team?” she offers with a shrug, and Lance grunts.

 

“I’m captain, that should come with the title.”

 

“What, respect?” Pidge snorts, stealing the ball from him and kicking it up to bounce from knee to knee. “That’s something you _earn._ ”

 

“Do it!” Hunk yells again, oblivious to the conversation taking place at center field. “I’ll buy you a smoothie if it goes in!”

 

“That’s more like it,” Lance smirks, snatching the ball back from Pidge and setting up on the line. She moves to stand at his right, phone out and ready to document his attempt at scoring from so far away.

 

“Ten bucks says he’ll miss,” she commentates to whoever she’s planning on sending the video to, and Lance dabs in response. “Gross.”

 

“Here I go,” he takes several large steps backward, and with a wink shot at Pidge he rushes forward: legs extending in front and gaining him the momentum he’ll need to send the ball flying into the net. He’s made shots like this before, so he thinks he can at least get _close_ , if nothing else.

 

But as Lance plants his foot near the ball and swings forward with his other leg - energy prepped to transfer from muscle to synthetic leather - he connects at an odd angle, sending the ball more upwards than outwards.

 

He gasps as he stumbles to a halt, and Pidge’s arms shoot up to the ceiling to track the progress the speeding sphere of black and white makes as it soars up and up, looking as though it will connect with the roof of the gym any second. But it doesn’t hit, and instead sails smoothly directly over the railing of the upstairs track.

 

“Oh shit-” Pidge curses, and on the other side of the field Hunk calls out a startled warning.

 

Because someone is running on said track, and they don’t have time to react to the shouts before the ball smacks directly into the side of their head, sending them crashing down as the energy it carried finds a new host.

 

Everything is still for a solid three seconds, and then Lance is running.

 

“Good one!” Pidge teases from behind him, and Hunk rushes over to where she’s standing with an expression of worry etched deep in his features. But Lance doesn’t pause to react, instead taking the stairs two at a time until he’s at the door leading out onto the track two levels up from the field. He rips it open and sprints over to where the person had been.

 

 _Shit shit shit-_ he swears as he sees a small crowd gathering around what he presumes to be the victim of his unintentional attack, and pushes through them with an apology ready on his lips.

 

And then he sees who he hit sit up, black hair tumbling down into their face, which is covered by a hand masked by fingerless gloves. Muscled arms tense as someone closer tries to help him stand - a woman nearly falling out of her top with lashes long enough to have split ends - and Lance gets a glimpse of dark eyes closing before a groan escapes thin lips.

 

“Damn,” the guy grumbles, and when he takes away his hand a stream of blood dribbles from his nose down his chin, staining the white tank he sports.

 

 _Damn is right,_ Lance catches himself thinking, taking in sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw, broad shoulders and thick, expressive brows. _Goddamn…_

 

“You’re bleeding!” the woman squeals suddenly, and Lance blinks himself out of his less than innocent thoughts. “Are you okay!?”

 

It seems an odd question to ask, given the observation she’d just made, and Lance catches the guy rolling his eyes before smiling up at her.

 

It’s a nice smile, despite the evident sarcasm it carries.

 

“Oh, just peachy.”

 

And Lance finally moves.

 

“Hey, I am _so sorry,”_ he begins, taking the remaining few steps before crouching at the guys side. “It wasn’t supposed to go that-”

 

“So it was _you_ who kicked that ball?” the girl interrupts, arms folded under her breasts to pop them up a tad higher. It’s not all that intimidating, though Lance doubts that’s her true goal. “You should be more careful! Didn’t you see he was running?! Anyone should have been able to see!”

 

“I-” Lance tries, but then an arm is suddenly wrapped around his neck, and he freezes as a voice coos sweetly by his ear.

 

 _“Baaabbee!”_ the guy cheers, nose pinched with one hand as the other curls into the fabric of Lance’s jersey. “You’re _so_ in the doghouse for this!”

 

There’s a beat of silence, which the girl promptly breaks.

 

“You’re...you guys are, ah,” she nods, arms falling to her side as she takes a step back. Her eyes linger on the guy for a long moment before shifting over to Lance, who hopes his confusion isn’t as evident as it feels. “You better apologize to your boyfriend,” she reprimands, and then awkwardly walks away with another overly long glance back at the guy still clinging to Lance’s side.

 

And Lance can do nothing but gape at the spot she had been, until the arm around his neck lifts and a sigh is released beside him.

 

“Ugh, thank _god.”_

 

“Umm…” Lance drawls, blinking as he turns his attention back to the still bleeding dude he’d hit.

 

_Does he have a concussion?? Because what the hell-_

 

“Sorry man,” his thoughts are cut off, and Lance frowns down at the stranger. “She’s been watching me for the last hour. Kept following me around the gym and working out on the machines directly beside mine. Sort of creeped me out, to be honest. I just didn’t want to give her an excuse to be alone with me, ya know?”

 

He smiles up at Lance, looking like he’s wearing lipstick with the amount of blood that’s stained his face. Lance reacts accordingly.

 

“I mean, I get it. But you should really do something about your nose-”

 

“This?” the guy shrugs, two fingers still pinching his nostrils shut, pitching his voice up. “This is nothin. I’ll be fine.”

 

But right as he says that he coughs, and a second stream of red flows from his nose past his hand.

 

“Ha, ew…” he begins, and then his eyes grow wide with shock. “Wh-what are you _doing?!”_

 

Lance pauses, having been in the middle of removing his jersey, and raises a brow.

 

“I don’t have any tissue,” he states, and the guy stumbles over his words, before finally pointing at Lance’s partially exposed torso to convey what he’d meant. “Oh, you can use this to stop the blood.”

 

And with that he removes his shirt and balls it up, offering it over as the guy gapes up at him.

 

“I’m not taking _that!”_

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because-” the guy starts, and then chokes on his words before settling for a frown. “Because I’m not gonna get blood all over your stuff!”

 

“It’s fine, I can wash it.”

 

“With what? Blood _stains_ , you know.”

 

Lance shrugs, uncaring.

 

“Baking soda? I don’t know, I’ll Google it. Just, here-” he shakes the hand holding the shirt, but still the guy refuses.

 

“I’m fine, really.”

 

He makes to stand but yelps as weight is placed on his left foot, and before he can tumble back to the ground Lance catches him, shirt still balled in his fist.

 

“Crap,” the stranger huffs, wincing as he tries to stand once more. Lance doesn’t let him though, instead turning and gesturing to his back from his crouched position on the track.

 

“Get on,” he instructs, and the guy shoots him an incredulous look.

 

“What?”

 

“I’ll carry you down to the bathrooms to stop your nosebleed and then take you to the clinic.”

 

There’s a pause, and Lance hears a scoff from behind him. He turns and watches a deep flush fill the cheeks of the guy refusing to accept his offer.

 

_Ha...cute._

 

“I can walk just fine-”

 

“C’mon _babe_ ,” Lance teases, cocking his eyebrow as the guy darkens. “Let me be a good boyfriend and take care of you.”

 

“Oh god,” the guy sighs, “you’re one of _those_ people.”

 

“Hey, you’re the one pretending to be gay to avoid women,” Lance laughs, but the stranger remains quiet behind him.

 

“Who says I’m pretending?”

 

_Oh...shit. But also like...score._

 

“Sorry,” Lance apologizes sincerely, and then gestures to his back once more. “But seriously, let me help you out. _I’m_ the one who knocked you out in the first place.”

 

“I wasn’t _knocked out!”_ the guy retorts with an unnecessary defensiveness, doing his best to scowl with a hand covering most of his face. “Just... _tipped_ off balance.”

 

 _Is he embarrassed?_ Lance wonders, but decides not to ask.

 

“Mmhmm,” he smirks, and then straightens as his hands find purchase on his hips. “Listen, I’m helping you whether you like it or not, so either get on my back or I’ll carry you bridal style all the way downstairs.”

 

There’s a flash of uncertainty that crosses those dark eyes, and then they narrow in skepticism.

 

“You wouldn’t…”

 

“You wanna find out?” Lance responds, almost eager to try, and the uncertainty shifts to fear.

 

“Fine, fine,” the guy grunts in reluctance, but he clambers onto Lance’s back easily enough, same arm returning to the place it had been around his neck not three minutes before. Legs tighten at his waist as Lance stands, and he exhales a laugh at the startled intake of breath at his ear.

 

“I gotcha, don’t worry.”

 

“I wasn’t!” the guy tries, but breaks off as Lance shoves the shirt in his face. “I don’t-”

 

“Just use it,” Lance demands with a gentle firmness, and when the guy still hesitates, he changes tactics. “I don’t want you bleeding all over me.”

 

“Pfft, as if,” but he finally relents, voice growing muffled from behind the clothing. “Ew. Ith sthinks.”

 

“It does not!” Lance chuckles, adjusting the weight of his newfound patient - hands clasping under thighs - before heading back towards the stairs. “I’m Lance by the way. Figured I should introduce myself now that we’ve gotten this close.”

 

He thinks he feels a laugh against his skin, but it’s hard to tell with the vibration of each step.

 

“M Keif.”

 

 _“Keif?_ That’s an interesting name, _”_ Lance snorts, knowing what had been meant but choosing to tease regardless. He bites back a grin as his arm is lightly smacked, _Keith_ making his retort known. But then he takes the first step down, and that same hand searches for purchase against his skin at the abrupt drop: hot fingers running desperately over his chest and near his collarbone.

 

Lance shivers, and hopes Keith can’t see the goosebumps that result from his touch.

 

 _Oh god...this may have been a mistake,_ he thinks as he ogles the remaining steps, wondering how long he can last with such a  warmth radiating into his back, each jostle a jarring reminder of the _guy_ he’s carrying.

 

By the first platform he’s beginning to regret not going for bridal style, though he doubts that would have been much easier. It’s bad enough that he can _feel_ each muscle movement intimately against his bare skin: the flex of the arm around his shoulder, the tightening of legs near his hips. Hair tickles his cheek and smells faintly of bar soap - a startling realization that has Lance wondering if this person is barbaric enough to use such a thing as shampoo.

 

And then his face heats as he imagines said person naked in the shower, wondering what they'd look like covered in suds.

 

_Fuck...what the hell Lance. Settle down._

 

Forget bridal style. As difficult as the piggy back is making his life, at least it hides his face and any thoughts that may be revealed by his expression. Because he's not some creep, stealing away a helpless bystander to fuel his fantasies. He won't be like that women and make Keith uncomfortable with his presence.

 

But damn. Why is the bathroom _so far away?!_

 

He makes it eventually, _thankfully,_ and carefully sets Keith down on the bathroom sink before hastily turning away. He hopes his red cheeks can be passed off as exertion, and prays his soccer shorts aren't speaking their mind.

 

“Thanks,” he hears murmured as a faucet is turned on, glancing back to see Keith begin rinsing out the red from his shirt. “And...sorry.”

 

“Huh? What for?” Lance asks, wondering if his abrupt retreat had been misinterpreted. Keith’s avoidance of eye contact tells him as much, and Lance steps closer to take his shirt from slender hands before soaking it fully beneath warming water, worries forgotten as his instincts to comfort take over.

 

“It’s me who should be apologizing to begin with, seeing as I’m the one who caused this.” He wrings the shirt out and watches pink water droplets splash against porcelain, before bringing the damp article up to an equally red nose. It’s stopped bleeding at least, though Lance is still careful as he begins dabbing the remaining blood away. “Besides, I told you I’d help.”

 

There’s no answer right away, which has Lance glancing up from his work. He’s immediately trapped in dark eyes, almost brown in the fluorescents but swirling with hazel flecks. They’re beautiful: glistening and deep, like staring into a cup of coffee on early mornings. Refreshing. Energizing.

 

Addictive, maybe? Was it possible to be hooked so quick?

 

Whatever the case, something in them has Lance buzzing, high on caffeine, and his hand stills as those eyes draw him in, beckon him closer: sirens hidden in the irises singing songs Lance can't hear.

 

But then they blink, and the moment breaks.

 

“I can do that,” Keith's voice is hushed, but his hands remain tucked at his sides despite his offer, leading Lance to continue with a sly smirk.

 

“You could, yeah,” is all he says, and tries not to grin when black brows lower over those captivating eyes.

 

“And _you_ can leave now.”

 

“I could,” Lance muses, wiping away blood from fair skin. He tries to ignore the lines of the soccer ball faintly imprinted in red along the side of Keith's cheek, careful to avoid applying too much pressure in case of potential bruising. He'd hate if he was the cause of such a blemish. “But I don't want to unless _you_ want me to...”

 

Keith inhales sharply, but if he'd been about to reply he keeps his mouth shut, choosing instead to stare at a spot on the floor as Lance works.

 

"No..."

 

A silence spreads out between them, but it's not uncomfortable. In fact, Lance almost finds it relaxing, and when he goes to wring out his shirt once more Keith's eyes are back on him.

 

“That was an impressive kick, by the way.”

 

Lance risks a glance upwards - judging the sincerity of the compliment - and then smiles as he judges it to be so, returning his attention back to his task.

 

“Thanks.” Keith's nose is pretty much clean at this point, but for some reason Lance is hesitant to stop. So he uses the edge of the clothing to wipe remnants of the accident from a firm jawline, wondering if it would be too much to suggest removing the tank top to reach the red marks that may have pooled beneath each stain.

 

“Would have been even cooler had no one gotten hurt though.”

 

“I told you, I'm-”

 

“Fine, yeah,” Lance fills in, sighing as he tosses the shirt into the sink. There's not much else he can do now, and his eyes trail down to Keith's ankle, recalling the extent of the injury. “Except that you can hardly walk.”

 

His fingers reach out to hook around Keith's foot, lifting it ever so slightly and freezing when he hears the responding hiss of pain.

 

“I should get you some ice-” Lance begins, turning towards the door, but a hand reaches out and grabs hold of his arm.

 

“I have ice!” Keith exclaims abruptly, and his hand drops away in sudden awareness, ears pink. “Sorry-”

 

“You do?” Lance prods, one brow raised as he turns to face Keith fully.

 

“I mean...back at my place…” Keith trails off, cheeks flushing as his eyes dart away from Lance's face. But it's enough of a hint for Lance to work with, and he grins wickedly as he shifts position so he's standing directly in front of Keith. And without waiting for permission he slips into the space between those legs, which hang down over the counter: hips framed by thighs that carry a warmth Lance is now familiar with.

 

He presses close, hands coming to rest behind Keith on the sink, careful not to touch just yet. Instead, he tilts his chin up to dive headfirst into those eyes, and drinks in the flush of cheeks framed by dark hair.

 

“Are you trying to seduce me?” he whispers, low and teasing, to which Keith shrugs with a forced nonchalance.

 

“More like, testing the waters.”

 

“And how are the waters feeling?” Lance presses, rising up on his tiptoes to be at eye level. The counter had given Keith an added couple inches over him, and though Lance hadn't really been able to tell who was taller since meeting the guy, there’s no denying the way Keith shivers as he's forced to stare at Lance straight on.

 

_Bingo. We got ourselves a bottom._

 

To exemplify the point, he lets his hands move over Keith's back, hesitant at first, but gaining momentum as Keith sinks into the touch. Lance smirks as he tilts forward, counting the green specs hidden in the brown of those eyes as his hands slip beneath the hem of Keith's tank.

 

“You know, I was a nurse for Halloween.”

 

Keith smiles without teeth, pressing forward into Lance's space as goosebumps ripple across his skin.

 

“Oh yeah?” he questions, tone sultry and deep. “And what are you suggesting?”

 

“Well,” Lance hums, nerves vibrating and blood rushing in his veins, all of it seemingly heading in one direction. “I know that sprained ankles should be kept elevated,” and his hand breaks away from that smooth back to reach down and scoop up Keith's injured leg, bending slightly so he can fit it over his shoulder before rising up to his full height.

 

And damn. Keith is flexible. Aside from a startled gasp at the sudden motion, he shows no sign of discomfort with having his foot so high in the air. In fact, he almost looks hungry, and Lance leans in to follow Keith as he sinks lower on the counter. Partially gloved hands shift away from the counter to rest against the bare skin of Lance's arms, and he sighs contentedly at the feeling of Keith's fingertips leaving delicate trails of fire wherever they touch.

 

“And?” Keith's voice is a hoarse whisper now, and it drives Lance crazy. His free hand provides balance while his other keeps the leg on his shoulder from moving too much. As sexy as all this is right now, Lance hasn't forgotten the reason they're here.

 

Keith on the other hand, doesn't seem to care.

 

“Are you gonna take care of me?”

 

Everything in Lance pulses, and he bites his lower lip as his eyes wander over Keith's face, down his neck and along the lines in his arms. Every part of him would look good with a mark, and Lance begins a list in his head of where he wants to place them.

 

But first:

 

“We gotta get you out of this dirty shirt. Very unhygienic.”

 

Keith laughs, but it's light and bubbly, and Lance almost dares to call it a giggle.

 

But he's focused now as Keith lifts his hips, allowing his fingers to find the edge of the tank top for easier removal. Each inch of exposed torso is a notch up in the volume of their combined pulses echoing in the bathroom around them, and it's a symphony. It's a concert. It's the subwoofer in Pidge's car that vibrates his entire soul.

 

It's the feeling he gets before every game. Before every goal. It's the moment he winds up to kick, knowing he won't miss. Everything is lined up, and all he has to do is take the shot.

 

But unlike the goal, Keith doesn't wait for Lance to shoot. Instead he meets him halfway, one hand shifting to clasp behind Lance's neck to draw him closer.

 

They're a breath apart now, so close, eyes darting back and forth between one and the other before finally slipping shut to let their lips do the talking.

 

An inhale. Exhale. Skin buzzing with the close proximity as Lance's mouth opens slightly in anticipation for what he knows will hit at any moment.

 

_It's happening! I can't believe we're about to-_

 

And then a toilet is flushed from one of the stalls they'd neglected to check for occupancy prior to all...well.

 

_This._

 

Lance springs backward, dropping Keith's leg with the sudden movement as he panics.

 

“Ow, _fuck_!” Keith hisses, and Lance rushes back over to him with a nervous laugh.

 

“Shit, sorry, but-” and he breaks off, the sound of a stall lock being slid open from around the corner of the bathroom. They need to get out of here _now._

 

So he grabs his shirt from the sink and promptly picks Keith up in his arms, bridal style this time, and darts into the hallway before they can be seen.

 

“Hey!” Keith protests, but his arms wrap firmly around Lance's neck, and he doesn't squirm to break free. “I can walk-”

 

“Shush,” Lance cuts him off, glancing behind him once before turning a corner. He heads over to the far end of the gym, where several small bleachers are set up for people to watch the soccer games on the field. “I said I'd take care of you. Let me do my job.”

 

Keith opens his mouth to protest, but decides better of it, settling on a small sigh as he relaxes somewhat in Lance's arms.

 

“I liked how you were taking care of me before,” he mumbles, and Lance feels his face heat as he gently places Keith on one of the seats. His team is playing now - the game having started without him - but Lance doesn't care in the slightest.

 

“I don't think the guy in the bathroom would have agreed,” he states truthfully, but Keith only shrugs.

 

“Like I said, I have ice at my place.”

 

And the suggestion is so smooth that Lance is forced to cough away his bashfulness, ducking his head as his fingers reach out to lift Keith's injured ankle once again.

 

He doesn't place it over his shoulder like before though, instead resting it on the bench a row down.

 

“I'll be right back,” he states as he stands, and Keith throws him a quizzical look.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“I gotta get my things if we're leaving,” he answers, and it's Keith's turn for shyness. He flushes, pushing the bangs from his face as he hides a growing smile behind his hand.

 

“I'll be here then.”

 

Lance nods, giddy all over again as he turns towards the stairs that will take him back to the field.

 

“You have anything you want me to grab?” he calls out over his shoulder, and Keith waves him off.

 

“I'm already taking back more than I came with so…”

 

Lance grins, tossing him a wink before running the rest of the way down. He gives Hunk a quick - altered - explanation when he reaches the field. He watches his best friend lift his head to stare up at the place Keith is sitting, safe behind a wall of glass the viewing area provides, before shooting Lance a knowing look.

 

“The clinic...right,” he muses, and Lance snorts as he gathers up his things.

 

“Whatever. Just take care of the team for me, yeah?”

 

Hunk nods, and Lance waves farewell as he rushes back up to where his patient is waiting.

 

Keith frowns when he approaches, gesturing down at the field.

 

“Is that your team?”

 

“Yeah,” Lance nods, dropping his bag before rummaging through it.

 

“Shouldn't you be playing?”

 

“Technically,” Lance answers, finding what he was looking for and beginning to undo the laces of Keith's shoe.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I'm gonna wrap your ankle-” Lance begins, but trails off as Keith shakes his head.

 

“No, I mean- you should be _playing_ right now, not worrying about me. I can take care of myself-”

 

“Haven't we already established my intentions?” Lance interrupts, efficiently silencing Keith. “Let me _help you.”_

 

Keith watches him for a long moment, and then sighs as he relents, allowing Lance to begin securing his ankle in gauze.

 

“Really though, you should be playing. I'd hate to be the one to interrupt your exercise.”

 

Lance lifts a brow as he works, glancing up at Keith with a sly smirk.

 

“I can think of some ways to compensate.”

 

“Oh?” Keith hums, slipping back into that same tone he’d been using in the bathroom. He leans down as Lance secures the end of the wrap, covering it with Keith's sock before tucking the extra shoe into his bag.

 

“If you're willing to help out, that is,” he goes on, hoisting his things over one shoulder before reaching a hand down to help Keith up. “I only ever proceed with the patient's consent.”

 

“How very thoughtful of you,” Keith hums back, taking Lance's hand and standing. He's able to put more weight on his foot now that it's bandaged, but he still leans heavily into Lance's side as they begin walking back to the dorms.

 

“Anything for you, _babe_ ,” Lance answers, hearing Keith groan playfully in response.

 

“I'm gonna regret that, aren't I.”

 

“Not if I have any say in the matter,” Lance answers coyly, pulling Keith closer to his side as they walk. “Besides, I kinda like it.”

 

Keith's cheeks are rosy when Lance glances over at him, and the smile he fights is shy.

 

 _And it looks like I'm not the only one,_ Lance thinks with his own grin, resisting the urge to turn back for the bathroom. Keith needs ice for his ankle, and Lance would prefer to work in a more... _comfortable_ environment.

 

So they go, slowly but with determination, to resume the attentions that had been interrupted, Lance allowing his thoughts to run wild as the two flirt almost competitively the entire way.

 

And it’s kinda funny, really.

 

Maybe even a bit ironic.

 

Lance’s shot had missed the net, but in the end he'd still scored.

 

And _god_ , what a goal it'd been.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Scoring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Lance get clean as they get dirty.

Keith… might be losing his mind a little.

 

Because he’s seen this boy, he’s _watched_ him before. From afar, he— _Lance—_ is eye-catching, all long golden limbs, and easy smiles that show off his dimples. He exudes a sort of joie-de-vivre, a _vitality,_ that Keith supposes must draw people to him like moths to a flame. That’s got to be why he’s always surrounded by people, right?

 

Keith just never thought he’d be another one of his entranced little moths, practically flying directly into the fire of his own volition.  

 

He doesn’t feel like he’s burning though. Rather, he feels like he’s _drowning_ in the blue of Lance’s eyes, head held underwater by the force of his own violent attraction, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

 

It takes every ounce of concentration he possesses to keep up with Lance’s flirting, while all his senses become deliciously saturated with the smooth, bare, skin of Lance’s shoulder under his palm. The scent of fresh sweat—of a man who has physically exerted himself—which Keith finds hopelessly, primally, sexy. The warmth of Lance’s body pressed against his side. The sound of Lance’s teasing voice…

 

It’s like he’s been specifically designed to appeal to Keith’s most base instincts... and Keith? He’s nothing if not instinctive.

 

“It’s this building, just lemme get out my keys,” he says, making to unwind his arm from around Lance’s neck and wobbling precariously on his good leg for his efforts.   

 

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on—” Lance objects, steadying him with a warm hand on his waist. The firm touch carries enough _intent_ to still Keith completely, and his muscles lock up as if he has been electrocuted. “Let _me,_ it’s in your pocket right?”

 

“Y-yeah—” stammers Keith, breath hitching embarrassingly as Lance uses his spare hand to pat him down…Thoroughly. Left front… right front… right back… _squeeze…_ and then, finally, left back, the actual location of Keith’s keys. Lance fishes them out nimbly.

 

“Found them,” he says cheerfully, likely _fully_ aware of the riot of butterflies he’s incited in Keith’s belly if his smug smirk is anything to go by. Keith swallows dryly. He wants to feel that smirk against his lips…

 

“Thanks, my room is this way,” he says, managing to keep his voice steady.

 

_Keep it together, Kogane._

 

Inside his building they head for the elevator, only to find that there is an ‘out of order’ sign stuck on the front.

 

“I usually take the stairs—I didn’t know it was out of order,” Keith feels compelled to explain.

 

“What floor are you on?” asks Lance without missing a beat.

 

“The second.” Which is why Keith never takes the elevator, it’s old and slow, and legging it up or down two flights has always been faster.

 

“Cool,” says Lance, and he adjusts his gym bag, slinging it across his chest diagonally so it’s secure, before swooping in and lifting Keith right off his feet.

 

This time Keith doesn’t bother to protest. He winds his arms around Lance’s neck and lets himself be cradled. Lets himself enjoy the ease with which Lance handles him—the feel of those strong arms around him. He hadn’t been able to enjoy it properly last time, what with the pain radiating through his ankle when Lance had dropped it, coupled with the adrenaline of being caught.

 

 _This_ time Keith lets himself nuzzle his face, just once, into the warm skin above Lance’s bare collarbone, and he imagines Lance handling him in a completely different situation…

 

“Which one is yours?” Lance asks when they get to the top of the stairs.

 

“207… but the communal showers are at the end of the hall.”

 

Lance walks straight past Keith’s door.

 

“We better get cleaned up, right?” says Lance, flashing Keith that megawatt smile.

 

“This shirt _is_ dirty, and as my nurse, it _is_ your responsibility to make sure I don’t slip and crack my head open properly,” Keith reasons aloud.  

 

Lance hitches Keith up higher in his arms and pushes open the bathroom door with his back. It’s blessedly _empty_ ; Keith can tell because every stall is open and vacant. They’re alone.

 

Lance sets Keith down on the long bench in front of the showers and drops his bag beside him, unzipping it and rifling around inside. He pulls out a towel and his shower supplies, along with Keith’s things, setting them to one side.

 

He then kneels down in front of Keith and carefully props Keith’s injured foot in his lap. His fingers go to the bandage, gently coaxing it loose.

  


“We shouldn’t get this wet,” he explains, looking up at Keith through his lashes, and all Keith can do is stare and nod, letting Lance touch him and move him however he wants. Keith has never realized how appealing it might be to let someone else call the shots. It’s a surprise to discover that he _wants_ to be at Lance’s mercy...

 

Once the bandage is off, Lance gently sets aside his bad leg and picks up his good one, undoing his laces before removing his shoe and sock. He does it so easily, treats Keith with this casual intimacy _so easily._  

 

If that isn’t enough to make Keith’s heart stutter in his chest, the next thing Lance does is riseup onto his knees and cup his face carefully with one hand, thumb caressing the rise of his cheekbone. He clicks his tongue sympathetically.

 

“Look what I’ve done to your pretty skin, it’s _bruising_ already. Sorry, Keith. We’ll need to put ice here too.”  

 

His face is close enough that Keith can count his eyelashes, can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks. All these things put together—the gentle concern, the casual intimacy and confident handling, those words spoken low and soft—they unravel Keith. Their combined effect is devastating to him. A critical hit.

 

His hands go to the golden slopes of Lance’s shoulders, fingers digging in to draw him even closer. Lance obligingly tilts his head. After all, he wants this too. That much is obvious.

 

He smiles and tries to say something, but then Keith’s lips are there, stealing the words from his mouth.   

 

And _oh_ …

 

The rest of the world fades away. Keith’s existence narrows down to Lance’s mouth and his hands. To what they’re doing to him. To how they’re making him _feel_.  

 

Lance sets his free hand on the bare skin of Keith’s knee, squeezing. He pushes his hand upwards, fingers following the firm curves of Keith’s thigh at an excruciatingly slow pace. Keith’s muscles tense in anticipation.

 

The hand on Keith’s cheek trails down his face to take him firmly by the chin, tilting his head in a way that makes everything immediately _better_ . Closer, _hotter_ . Keith likes the way Lance tastes—like he drank something sweet and citrusy. He likes the way Lance _kisses,_ even though in some ways it’s frustrating. Because while Lance’s mouth is warm and generous, it’s also _teasing._ He alternates between kissing Keith deeply and pulling back to offer nips and smaller pecks, when all Keith wants to do is _consume_ him.

 

But it _is_ fun. Kissing Lance is _fun._

 

Keith _whines_ disapprovingly the next time he pulls away, and Lance has the audacity to chuckle and coo the word “ _cute_ ” at him. He pets Keith’s hair back from his face, tucking it behind one of his ears. “And pretty,” he adds.

 

Keith pouts, and Lance leans back in to bite his bottom lip, sucking it playfully before releasing. He presses one last soothing kiss to Keith’s mouth before properly pulling away.

 

“We have to _shower_ , babe,” Lance reminds him, eyes dancing with amusement. Both of his hands go the hem of Keith’s shirt. “Arms up,” he orders playfully.

 

Blushing and glaring, feeling hopelessly hot and bothered, hopelessly _attracted_ , Keith does as he’s told. Lance’s knuckles graze his ribs as he strips Keith of his tank top, and the exposure to the cool air of the bathroom makes him shiver.

 

“Wow,” Lance breathes, staring right at him. His eyes are so _blue_ . “You’re _so.._..”

 

He presses a kiss to Keith’s collar bone, not bothering to finish his sentence, and then presses another to the top of one shoulder.

 

“You okay sharing one shower stall?” he asks. The question is thoughtful, and it fills Keith’s chest with affection.

 

“As long as you are,” he answers.

 

Lance stands and toes off his shoes, before pulling his pants and boxers down in one smooth motion.

 

Keith nearly chokes as half of the blood in his body rushes to his cheeks, while the other half goes straight to his groin. Lance is _beautiful,_ and Keith can’t help but wonder which past life of his he needs to thank for racking up good karma points because _clearly_ his current incarnation is about to spend them all.

 

_Worth it. So worth it._

 

He wants Lance in his hands. He wants him in his mouth. He wants him desperately _anywhere_ he can get him.

 

Lance’s grin turns wolfish and knowing. “Now you,” he says, taking Keith by the hands and pulling him up on to his one good foot. “Let me help…”

 

He’s as slow with Keith’s pants as he was with Keith’s top, easing the fabric down over Keith’s hips as if he is savoring the moment. Peppering Keith’s hip bones and thighs with kisses.

 

And then they’re both naked, and it’s Lance’s turn to look his fill. He doesn’t even try to pretend like he isn’t staring - like he isn’t relishing every inch of pale skin he reveals.

 

He winds one of Keith’s arms over his shoulder (skin to skin feels _so_ much better), and helps him into the corner shower stall.

 

Once Keith is situated under a hot spray of water, Lance leaves his side for a moment to fetch shower supplies. When he returns, he locks the door behind himself with a click, and hangs his things on a hook.

 

Even though there wasn’t anyone else in the bathroom anyway, the locked door and small steamy space make Keith feel even _more_ alone with Lance. Like they’re the only two people in the world.

 

“Are you gonna come here and make sure I don’t slip?” asks Keith like it’s a challenge.

 

“Of course, babe. I’ll even wash your hair,” answers Lance, stepping in real close.

 

He takes Keith’s hand and kisses the back of it. Then he turns it over in his grip and kisses Keith’s wrist. Such a chaste gesture shouldn’t discompose him as much as it manages to, but there Keith is with his heart in his throat, anticipation pooling low in his belly.

 

Lance trails kisses up Keith’s forearm, up over his bicep, while his other hand goes to Keith’s hip, holding him steady. Lance’s lips are soft, ticklish and addictive.

 

“What are you doing?” Keith sounds embarrassingly breathless.

 

“Seducing you,” Lance purrs as he peppers Keith’s shoulder with kisses. It’s instinctive for Keith to bare his neck. Lance rewards him with his teeth—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark—and Keith _moans_.

 

“F-fuck, Lance—” he chokes out, “—I already decided I wanna do this with you, you don’t—you don’t need to—” Lance picks another spot—the tender skin where Keith’s jaw meets his throat— and his protest dissolves into another moan.

 

“Do you like that?” Lance asks, disregarding Keith’s statement completely and pressing his body flush against him, both of them gloriously wet from the warmth of the shower. _Slick._ Keith loops his arms around Lance’s neck.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, and then he kisses him.

This time it’s better. This time Lance doesn’t tease him. He picks up Keith’s bad leg at the knee to sling it over his hip, leaving his hurt ankle dangling safely out of the way, and then he presses Keith flat against the bathroom wall, cupping his head with his other hand to cushion him against the hard surface.

 

The coolness of the tiles make Keith gasp, but the warmth of Lance’s bare skin pressed all along his front is more than enough to make up for it.

 

Their hips slot together, and finally Keith can feel how excited Lance is. Excited for _him._ It’s a relief to feel hard proof that Lance is just as affected by this as Keith is, otherwise it would be embarrassing how turned on and eager he feels.   

Lance rocks into him, rocks them together as he licks into Keith’s mouth, and the only thing Keith can do is hold on, and try not to make too many mortifying sounds.

 

Fuck. Keith can feel his finish building in him already, tightening in his gut and sending tremors up his spine. He breaks their kiss to gasp, and Lance immediately turns his attention to Keith’s neck again, lavishing kisses there instead.

 

“Are you gonna come for me?” Lance asks in a low voice.

 

“Yeah,” Keith pants, but there’s no way he’s going down alone. He’s determined to drag Lance there with him, so he unwinds his arms from around Lance’s neck, feels his way down that toned chest, insinuating himself until he can wrap his hands around his length. And Lance feels _good_ in his hand. _Big,_ and silky smooth. Wet from the water that is still falling, piping hot, from overhead.

 

Keith _squeezes,_ and the steady pace at which Lance is rocking against him stutters. He lets out a delicious little moan that fills Keith with determination and confidence.

 

“Do you like that?” he teases breathlessly, adjusting his grip so he can hold them together.

 

“Yeah,” asserts Lance, utterly shameless, thrusting into Keith’s fist, and then together they race for the finish line. Lance captures Keith’s mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. His hips buck against Keith’s wildly, while Keith’s hands pump them together, faster and faster.

 

And then Keith’s mind dissolves into pleasure as he breaks. He thinks he might sob Lance’s name, but he isn’t sure. That doesn’t matter right now, not when he’s coming the hardest he can remember for a long long time. Hard enough to make him shake, and babble a stream of barely intelligible words—he doesn’t know whether they’re pleas or praise. He only knows that somehow it’s worked and Lance is crashing into him as well, his hips stuttering and a needy growl escaping his throat.

 

Keith slumps against Lance bonelessly as his pleasure ebbs, leaning his head on his shoulder as his eyelids flutter weakly. He’s drained in that satisfying way only a _really good_ orgasm can drain someone. His knee is shaking, the exertion of keeping him upright rapidly becoming too taxing.

 

He hears Lance still panting by his ear, feels hot liquid coating his fingers and stomach, adding to the mess he’s already made of himself, and he knows Lance has finished too.

 

Lance let’s his leg down gently, and he wraps one arm around Keith’s waist and the other around his shoulders, hugging him tightly despite the mess between them. Keith is grateful for the support this provides because it would be horribly embarrassing if his leg were to give out and he were to crumple to the shower floor in a nerveless puddle of come and endorphins.

 

Lance suddenly laughs, free and joyful. “Well, that took the edge off,” he say, pulling back to flash Keith that handsome, dimpled smile.

 

 _...I’m so gay_ , Keith thinks, struck by the way Lance’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles like that. He _sparkles._

 

“We better actually get cleaned up now though,” he says, helping Keith limp forward before propping him up right under the shower-head to rinse their mess off his chest. He proceeds to wash Keith from the top of his head to his toes, using his own products to boot because Keith’s shampoo doesn’t smell like apples. He—like a heathen—doesn’t actually use shampoo _at all_ . To Keith, soap is soap. Why did skin and hair need different soap, when the only thing both of those places needed was to be _clean?_

 

When Keith says as much to Lance, he makes a choking noise.

 

“That’s criminal,” he informs him as he tips Keith’s head back to rinse away the conditioner he’d massaged in. “Honestly, I don’t think you should be trusted to shower by yourself from now on. You _clearly_ need supervision.”

 

Keith hums. “Are you volunteering?” he asks lazily, relaxed from both the orgasm and Lance’s hands in his hair. Keith is _never_ this pliant usually, but it just feels so good to be touched like this—careful and deliberate. It’s dangerously easy to give himself over to Lance’s care.

 

“Hell _yeah_ I am. Pro bono for you, sweetheart.” As if to underline his statement, Lance drops a kiss on his head, before guiding him out of the stall.

 

Keith didn’t bring anything with him, so Lance uses his towel to dry them both off, before wrapping it securely around Keith’s waist seeing as he doesn’t have anything to change into.

 

For himself, Lance shoves on some clean boxers, and then he helps Keith trudge back to his room.

 

Once they’re safely sequestered in Keith’s dorm, Lance ushers Keith straight to the bed. At first he thinks that Lance is gearing up for round two, so he eagerly lets Lance lay him out flat on his back, ‘accidentally’ dropping the towel—the only thing preserving his modesty—in the process.

 

But then Lance says “So where’s your ice? And have you got anymore pillows so we can prop up your ankle?” leaving Keith—naked—on his bed to poke around his things. Keith blinks, slow to realize that Lance is making good on his ostensible reason for coming over in the first place. Sheepishly, Keith reaches for a pair of boxers from his clean laundry basket, which is thankfully within his grasp, wrestling himself into them.

 

“I haven’t got any more pillows, but the ice is over there,” he says finally—almost disappointed—pointing to his mini-fridge, where he has an ice-pack shoved in the tiny freezer section.

 

Lance fetches it for him, and when he returns, he whips the pillow underneath Keith’s head away—ignoring Keith’s indignant squawk—and folds it in half to slip it underneath Keith’s ankle.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’ll get you another pillow,” he teases. It makes Keith realize that he’s pouting, which only makes him pout _harder_.

 

“I haven’t got any other pillows,” he retorts.

 

Lance just gives him an enigmatic smile, and sits at the foot of the bed to start re-wrapping Keith’s ankle. His hands are warm, and they move deftly over his skin.

 

“That feel okay?” he asks once he’s done, tucking the ice pack in beside Keith’s ankle. Keith nods, and wonders if this is when Lance leaves, and they part ways... He doesn’t want him to go just yet.

 

Lance stands, and Keith blurts “Are you going?”

 

Lance freezes, looks down at him, and then his whole expression softens. “Of course not.”

 

He closes the distance between them and pulls Keith up by the shoulders, before slotting himself in behind him, and that’s how Keith finds himself cradled against Lance’s firm chest.    
  
“Uh… what are you doing?” Keith asks stupidly, like it isn’t obvious.

 

“You haven’t got any more pillows,” Lance answers cheerfully, like that explains everything. Keith’s face inexplicably heats up.

 

“That doesn’t mean you have to—I mean, I don’t expect you to—”

 

“I want to,” Lance interrupts. His breath is hot against Keith’s neck. “It’s the least I can do since this is my fault.”   

 

“If you insist,” says Keith gruffly, but he tucks a small, delighted smile away where Lance can’t see it.

 

They end up watching something on Keith’s shitty old laptop—a documentary on Netflix—but Keith doesn’t learn anything from it.

 

All he learns is that Lance makes an excellent pillow.  


  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm greenteafiend and I wrote this chapter :) 
> 
> Find me [here](https://greenteafiend.tumblr.com/) if you like.
> 
> Thanks to my buddy [Elle Gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGray/pseuds/Elle%20Gray) for betaing this, and to VulpesVulpes713 for inviting me to add to this! It's been fun! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Needless to say, the new goalie was a tad traumatized.


End file.
